


To the Block

by Kaicielia



Series: Miria [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: My own telling of the opening scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4333808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaicielia/pseuds/Kaicielia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My own telling of the opening scene, with refrences of the back story I gave my character. Actually the first I wrote in this world, used simply as a reference for future stories. Just getting into a writing groove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Block

Noises drew Miria back to the world; Snorting, jingling and the sound of hooves on the road. Over it all she heard the howl of the wind and felt the bite of the cold it brought. She struggled to recall where she had been, where the noises and the cold could not reach her, and squeezed her eyes shut to return. The attempt was futile, however, and she was able to make out other noises as sleep slipped further away. Wood creaked in time with the jarring of her seat. A bird cried overhead and a small animal darted through the underbrush. Men spoke in the distance.

She opened her eyes but sleep blurred her vision. The black and green haze shifted and slowly took the shapes of a man driving the cart she rode in and the trees that lined the road. The early morning mist clouded everything beyond in white. 

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

She shifted her eyes to see a man she did not know sitting across from her. A Nord soldier with blonde hair hanging to his shoulders, braids plaited here and there. He was tall and fit, with old scars marking the muscles that bulged through the armor he wore. She noted the straps binding his wrists and frowned, noticing that her own were bound as well.

“You all right there?”

Miria ignored his question and looked ahead to see another cart and Imperials on horseback leading them. She blinked back tears, longing for the freedom that had slipped from her grasp. Stone walls rose ahead and mountains stood starkly against the sky beyond.

“Damn you Stormcloaks!” This voice came from her right and she turned toward it, seeing two more prisoners in the cart. Another blond, a man she could have mistaken for her father, was gagged and bound next to her while the other, thin and nervous looking with dark hair, continued to rant across from him. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell by now!”

The gagged man stared into the distance, ignoring his immediate surroundings. Miria noted the quality of the clothing he wore; fur lined robe, fine armor and well-stitched boots and bracers. Even the Imperial officers she’d known didn’t dress as well.

“You there.” The darker man called to her and she shifted her eyes to him. “You and me – we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” the soldier across from her pointed out.

“Shut up back there!” the driver ordered.

Miria turned a withering look on him, just then noting the Imperial colors he wore, and imagined thrusting a dagger through his back.

“And what’s wrong with him, huh?” the horse thief nodded to the nobleman, whose eyes turned cold as they focused on him.

“Watch your tongue!” the soldier snapped. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

Recognition flashed through Miria’s mind. She saw her father and brothers conspiring around the family’s dining table years ago, speaking the name Stormcloak in reverent tones. She turned to look at the gagged man again.

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The thief paled and his eyes went wide. “You’re the leader of the rebellion! But if they’ve captured you…. Oh, gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” the man across from her said grimly, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No – this can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!” The thief began to panic.

Miria watched as the walls of the village ahead of them loomed nearer. Peasants carried baskets and buckets through the gates, getting an early start on their work for the day.

“Hey. What village are you from, horse thief?” the soldier asked, his voice softer.

“Why do you care?” the man sneered.

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

The thief’s face sobered and he dropped his eyes. “Rorikstead. I’m... I’m from Rorikstead.”

Miria let her own eyes drop as she thought of her childhood home. It had been years since she’d seen the place, since Imperials had killed her family and taken her as a prize, and she had maintained hope that she’d see it again. The closer they got to the village the further the dream slipped away.

“General Tulius, sir!” A voice called out. “The headsman is waiting!”

“Good,” came a brusque reply. “Let’s get this over with.”

A shadow passed over them as the cart was pulled through the gate. Small houses lined the cobblestone street on either side. Tough mountain bushes rose between the stones, denying the human’s claim over the land. Villagers stopped to watch the procession.

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh,” The thief prayed to whichever Gods would listen. “Divines, please help me.”

Miria glared at him in disgust. Behind him two figures, one an Imperial general and the other Altmer, watched from the backs of their steeds near the gate.

“Look at him. General Tulius, the Military Governor,” the soldier spat. “And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

As the cart proceeded a look of recognition came over his face. “This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

From the porch of the inn, a young boy sat cross-legged on the steps and watched. He twisted his body to speak to a man behind him. “Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”

“You need to go inside, little cub,” his father said gently, scooping him up.

“Why?” the boy sulked. “I wanna watch the soldiers.”

“Inside the house. Now.” The father’s tone had turned stern and his son reluctantly obeyed.

“We fought for their freedom...” the soldier went on, turning away from the scene, “and that is the welcome we get.”

The cart slowed as it approached another wall near a courtyard dominated by red and black Imperial banners.

“Get those prisoners out of the carts!” a harsh voice barked. “Move it!”

“Why are we stopping?” the thief asked with fear in his voice.

“Why do you think?” the soldier said grimly. “End of the line.” The cart jerked to a halt and he stood up. “Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

Miria stood, the weakness of her legs reminding her of her few days of freedom sheltering in hollows and scavenging for food. The others rose with her and turned to the back of the cart.

“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!” the thief protested.

“Face your death with some courage, thief.” The soldier spat.

The thief jumped down from the cart, still pleading for his life. “You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”

Prisoners from the other cart, wearing the same colors as the soldier, were already lining up. Two Imperials consulted lists behind a captain, one hand resting threateningly on her sword, and a broad-shouldered Nord who held a scroll and quill pen of his own.

“Step towards the block when we call your name!” the captain ordered sharply, folding her arms over her armored chest. “One at a time!”

Behind Miria, the soldier sighed as he jumped from the cart and landed on the cobblestones. “Empire loves their damn lists.”

The Nord with the list made a brief note on it and then called the first name. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” the blonde soldier murmured respectfully as the rebel leader crossed over to the courtyard, head held high.

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

The soldier – Ralof, Miria corrected herself – followed his king.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No!” the horse thief cried. “I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” He dashed forward and past the startled Imperial captain.

“Halt!” she commanded, regaining her composure.

“You’re not going to kill me!” Lokir shouted as he ran up the road.

“Archers!”

From the doorway of a stone tower, a trio of Imperial archers smoothly nocked their arrows, aimed, and let them fly. The escaping thief collapsed on the cobblestones, three arrows piercing his back.

“Anyone else feel like running?” the captain demanded, a scowl on her face.

“Wait. You there.” Ignoring the bravado of his superior, the Nord with the list gestured to Miria. “Step forward.”

Long used to following orders, Miria did so, shaking with the effort to stand.

“Who are you?”

She tried to speak but her voice caught from disuse. She cleared her throat before trying again. “Miria,” she answered. 

"What're you doing here, Redguard? You a sellsword? A sailor from Stros M'kai?” The Nord waited for an answer and, realizing he wouldn’t get one, checked his scroll. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

The Captain replied indifferently. "Forget the list. She goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain." The Nord turned back to face her, his eyes asking forgiveness. ”I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Hammerfell." He cleared the emotion from his face and continued, “Follow the captain, prisoner.”

Miria followed the steps of those who had gone before her, fighting through her apprehension. On the one hand, she was escaping a life of captivity. On the other, she was waiting to be put to death for the crime of stumbling into the soldiers’ camp. 

She stood among the Stormcloaks facing the congregation that had come to witness the death of Ulfric and, presumably, the rebellion he led. A touch on her shoulder drew her eyes to the left and to Ralof, fully a head taller, as he offered what comfort he could.

“Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Her eyes shifted to the jarl, standing not five feet away, stoic and strong. A man with short white hair wearing the gold and leather armor of a general in the Legion stood in front of him, speaking in a voice loud enough for everyone in the courtyard to hear.

“Some here in Helgen call you a hero,” the general called out. “But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

Ulfric grunted in reply, his mouth obstructed by the gag.

“You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down – and restore the peace!”

An unearthly roar echoed over the mountains. Several soldiers looked up in fear, some tightening their grip on their weapons. Miria’s eyes followed theirs, straining to see from where the noise had come.

“What was that?” the Nord with the list asked apprehensively.

“It’s nothing,” the general said abruptly, addressing the female captain who was now standing at his side. “Carry on.”

“Yes, General Tulius!” The captain saluted and motioned to the nearby Priestess of Arkay, a quiet woman in dark yellow robes. “Give them their last rites.”

The priestess raised both of her hands and began to speak, her impassioned voice carrying over the still courtyard. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you –”

A red-haired prisoner lunged forward. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with!” he snarled.

The priestess lowered her arms, giving an indignant huff. “As you wish.”

The man strode to the chopping block, overshadowed by a bulky headsman wielding an executioner’s axe. “Come on! I haven’t got all morning!”

Incensed at the interruption, the Imperial captain grabbed him and shoved him to his knees. She put a boot in his back to hold him down, forcing him to bare his neck for the blade. She nodded at the headsman and he raised the axe high over his head.

“My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials!” the Stormcloak jeered, defiant to the last. “Can you say the same?”

Unable to help herself, Miria jumped when she heard the sickening thunk of the executioner’s axe, cutting off any further taunts as it cleaved through flesh and bone and embedded in the wooden block beneath. The dead man’s head fell into a crate and the ground around him turned red. The captain unceremoniously kicked the corpse to one side.

“You Imperial bastards!” a female Stormcloak screamed.

“Justice!” called one of the villagers.

“Death to the Stormcloaks!” shouted another with hatred.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof mumbled in eulogy. 

The Imperial captain swaggered forward. “Next, the Redguard!” 

Miria hesitated, unable to place one foot in front of the other. Another touch on her shoulder shook her from inaction and she stepped forward when another roar filled the air, louder than before. She stopped and looked to the sky.

“There it is again,” she heard the Nord with the list say in a worried tone. “Did you hear that?”

The captain disregarded his comment. “I said, next prisoner!”

The Nord tore his anxious eyes from the sky and nodded to Miria. “To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.”

Her feet moved stiffly, one in front of the other. She stepped around the blood, but the captain grabbed her and pushed her down, stepping into her back as she had with the soldier. Miria felt the sticky liquid smear her face and neck as she laid her head on the block. The dark form of the headsman loomed over her, framed by the tower behind him. He stretched as he raised the axe over his head.

A third roar passed over the crowd and a shadow blocked out the sky.

“What in Oblivion is that?” Tulius cursed.

“Sentries!” the Imperial captain called. “What do you see?”

“It’s in the clouds!”

With an impact that shook the ground a great beast landed on the tower and stones fell as it dug its claws into the parapet. The sulphuric downdraft from its great wings stirred up a cloud of dust and smoke. Its dark scales seemed to drink up the light and black horns crowned its lizard-like head.

A single Imperial voice called over the rest. “Dragon!”

The headsman, knocked to the ground by the force of the dragon landing, struggled to stand. Miria watched as the beast opened its massive maw, thinking for a moment that it would be better to die by dragonfire than Imperial steel. Back on his feet, the executioner stood between her and the dragon and took the brunt of the beast’s attack. He flew back, his bones cracking as his body collided with one of the carts. Storm clouds swirled overhead and balls of fire fell from the sky.

"Don't just stand there. Kill that thing!" Tulius shouted.

"By Ysmir, nothing kills it!" another voice answered.

"Get the townspeople to safety…"

Instinct kicked in and Miria was on her feet running blindly. She saw Ralof pointing to the open door of a tower and altered her direction, stumbling as her exhausted legs struggled to keep pace. She was pulled through the door as fire and force erupted behind her, knocking her to her knees. Ulfric and several of the other Stormcloak soldiers stood around her as Ralof helped her to her feet.

“Jarl Ulfric,” Ralof said as he cut the High King’s bindings with a sword from a fallen Imperial, “What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” the jarl answered grimly. 

Another blast outside shook the walls and dust rained down on them. “We need to move,” the jarl yelled in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now!” 

Ralof jumped into action. “Up through the tower! Let’s go!”

Miria sprinted forward, not waiting to see if anyone else followed. She climbed the winding staircase as fast as she could manage when the wall on one side disappeared in a crash of stone and fire. She shielded her face and staggered back, braced by Ralof before she tumbled down, and they caught a glimpse of the dragon as it again took to the air. When she gained her feet Ralof pointed to a burning building through the shattered wall.

“See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going!”

Miria gave him a look of disbelief.

"Go! We’ll follow you when we can!”

Miria jumped, sailing through the air and twisting an ankle when she landed. She covered her nose and mouth with a scrap of the tunic she wore, trying in vain to block the smoke from her lungs. She limped down the stairs and out the door where she saw the Nord with the list leading others through a narrow street.

He was giving orders to the Imperials around him. “Still alive, prisoner?” he asked when he saw her. “Come with me if you want to stay that way.” They followed a path that snaked behind a row of houses. The dragon landed on the wall next to them and they pressed themselves against the stone and froze, avoiding the beast’s attention.

A low growl rumbled from above them before the dragon again took to the sky.

”Quickly,” the Nord ordered, “follow me!” They picked their way over bodies and rubble as they drew closer to the gate. As they approached Miria saw Ralof running from another direction.

“Ralof, you damned traitor!” The Nord shouted, casting a hateful glance his way. “Out of my way!”

“We're escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof countered. “You're not stopping us this time.” 

”Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!”

”You, come on!” Ralof waved and Miria moved to follow him.

Hadvar’s eyes flitted to her as she left his side and narrowed into slits, but there was no time for punishment.

The dragon roared again and circled in the sky. Miria looked up at it and reached out. “Ralof,” she said, tugging on his arm, “we have to move.”

He nodded and started for the keep. “In here.”

Miria looked at the gates and the flood of refugees that flowed through it, questioning the wisdom of entering the keep, but followed regardless. 

“I wasn't sure I'd see you again,” Ralof said when they entered. His eyes swept the room.

“Well,” Miria answered, “here I am.”

His answering laugh died in his throat. Miria turned to see what was amiss and found the man standing over the body of a fallen Stormcloak. “We’ll meet again in Sovngarde, brother.”

She dropped her eyes, offering him some measure of privacy in his grief, and turned back to the door.

”Looks like we’re the only ones who made it.” He roamed the room, rifling through anything that could be useful, as he rambled on about what had happened. “Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off.” He cut the leather that still bound her wrists. “You can't go around dressed in rags,” he said a moment later. “May as well take Gunjar's gear.” When she hesitated he added, “He won’t be needing it anymore.” 

The woman nodded and bent to remove the armor. She avoided looking into the dead man’s face as she worked and when she had stripped his armor from him offered a quick prayer before returning to her feet.

It didn’t fit well. She had to tighten the straps to keep it from falling off her body, causing the seams to dig into her flesh painfully. She hefted the axe, testing its weight as she swung it back and forth, then turned back to Ralof for direction.

“Someone’s coming,” he said as she heard the Imperial captain’s voice from behind one of the locked gates in the room. “Hide.”

They stood on either side of the door and, when the woman walked through with a pack of her comrades, dispatched them easily. Miria discarded the axe in favor of the lighter and faster Imperial sword the woman carried and they found a key to the lower levels of the keep on her.

They made their way through halls and rooms, fighting off Imperials whenever they came upon them. Coming upon a torture chamber, they found more Stormcloak soldiers fighting off the Imperials there. Ralof pointed out a barrel full of healing tonics as he ran to the cells in the room to see what could be found. Miria fetched the tonics and the sack of apples she found near it. 

As they continued to dodge through hallways she bit into one of the apples, her stomach growling loudly when it realized it would finally be filled.

“How long has it been?” Ralof asked in a slightly amused tone.

“Too long,” Miria answered. 

The halls ended and natural caves took their place. There were no Imperials this far down and they found themselves fighting off the frost spiders that called the place home. They scavenged what they could from the remains scattered in the spider’s cave and continued on.

Miria’s steps slowed considerably with the immediate threat of death behind her. They stopped at a small stream that flowed through the cave, drinking and washing the spider gore from their armor. Miria pulled out another apple, offered one to Ralof and they set off again. They continued through the twisting passages, minutes turning to hours, when they saw light up ahead.

“There, I bet that's the way out. I knew we'd make it!”

When they exited the cave they heard another roar from the dragon and watched through the treetops as it flew off. “Looks like its finally gone away for good,” Ralof observed.

They followed a path that led from the cave and found the road to Helgen, then turned away from the village, keeping eyes and ears open for any sign of Imperial pursuit. 

“My sister, Gurdur, lives just ahead in Riverwood,” Ralof explained. “She’ll help us. If we beat the news from Helgen, we should be fine.”

A couple times on their journey Ralof pointed out landmarks, but they otherwise travelled in silence. When they entered the town Miria noted the Imperial armor the guard wore and became nervous, but they took no notice of her. They found Ralof’s sister at the lumber mill and she, her husband Hod and Ralof discussed the situation.

Miria remained silent during the conversation except when asked a direct question. She had been a talkative child, too talkative if you asked some who knew her then, but after years of being punished for speaking out of turn, often severely, she had learned to hold her tongue. When Gurdur offered Miria a meal and a bed for the night, she stared dumbly at the woman.

“Don’t worry,” Gurdur said as she turned to the house. “Any friend of Ralof’s is a friend of mine.”

“I told you my sister would help us,” Ralof said proudly, following the woman and motioning for Miria to follow.

It had been a long time since Miria had eaten anything but the cold scraps thrown to her by various masters. The hot cabbage and apple stew fought back the persistent cold in her bones and when she bit into the warm, seasoned venison she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, allowing the juices to linger on her tongue. Frodnar, the couple’s young son, giggled as he watched her eat and she cast him a mischievous smile, memories of her own happy childhood taking the place of more immediate concerns.

Miria aided Frodnar with his chores after the meal, playing along with the child’s games and answering his questions while avoiding any detailed talk of her life of the last several years. She told him of the dragon, and of seeing the Imperials fighting and dying as they fought it. She told him of the stone keep and the spiders in the cave she and Ralof had travelled through to escape.

“A dragon in Skyrim,” Gurdur exclaimed when the youth was safely tucked into his bed for the night. “Jarl Balgruuf must be informed; Riverwood has little protection against such a beast.”

“I would do it,” Ralof offered, “but I must meet with the Stormcloaks and Whiterun is out of my way.” He turned to Miria. “Could you do it, friend? Convince the jarl to send additional troops?”

Miria nodded readily. “I’ll do what I can,” she promised, eager to repay the hospitality she had been shown. Besides, she thought to herself, it’s not like I have anything else I have to do.

The conversation continued, but exhaustion and hot food in her stomach pulled Miria’s mind to Oblivion. She thanked Gurdur and Hod again for their hospitality and curled up on the bed that had been hastily assembled.

****

“Come back from the window, Miria,” Mother called after Lorad fell before one of the attackers. She pulled Miria into the back room and turned her head frantically, searching for any place the little girl could hide. Pulling the bottom drawer from the dresser, she discarded its contents and the rear panel in a chest next to it. “Crawl in there, as far back as you can. Be still and be quiet.” The drawer was returned to its place, pushed back as far as her mother could get it.

The front door slammed open and boots pounded the wood floor of the house. The table crashed as it was pushed over and Miria heard the clunk of the metal cooking pans as they hit the floor.

“Please,” she heard her mother plead to the men. “Take what you want and leave, you’ll find no resistance here.”

Heavy boots entered the room as the crashing in the rest of the house continued. “Damn right you won’t resist, whore,” an angry male voice sneered.

“Please, no,” she heard her mother cry. There was a scuffle and a slap and Miria clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a whimper.

More heavy steps entered the room. “Oh yeah,” a second voice said. “Save some for the rest of us.” The dresser shook as its drawers were opened and closed. “Anything else worthwhile in this dump?”

When the bottom drawer was slammed into her, Miria jumped and barked her head painfully on the drawer above. The drawer was removed and thrown aside and Miria saw one of the men lying atop her mother on the bed just before hands reached for her and began pulling her out of hiding.

Her scream split the cold winter air.

****

Miria awoke suddenly, sweat beading on her forehead. It had been so long since she’d dreamed of that day that she had almost forgotten how bad it had been. Almost. 

She was surprised to find herself curled in Ralof’s arms, their shared body heat fighting off the cold drafts that worked through the house. He snored loudly and the smell of old ale on his breath hinted that he would sleep for many more hours. She worked her way out of the blankets and dressed quickly, eager to get as far from Helgen, and the Imperial forces she imagined were looking for her, as quickly as she could.

Morning was beginning to color the sky when she walked to the main room of the house. She left a handful of the coins she’d looted off dead Imperials in place of the bread and cheese she took from the table and slipped out of the house.


End file.
